


Balm

by anti_ela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the bad days, when nothing helps, Dean turns off the lights, soaks rags in ice water, and swathes his brother in cold and dark. After a time—Sam can never tell, somehow, if it's been a minute or an hour—the pounding slows, and the pain recedes, and thought can surface again. Usually, that thought is "thirsty," or "hungry," or tired or weak but always, always underneath it is, "I don't deserve this." </p><p>Or, to be more precise: Dean doesn't deserve this. Dean could have a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MooseFeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/gifts).



On the bad days, when nothing helps, Dean turns off the lights, soaks rags in ice water, and swathes his brother in cold and dark. After a time—Sam can never tell, somehow, if it's been a minute or an hour—the pounding slows, and the pain recedes, and thought can surface again. Usually, that thought is "thirsty," or "hungry," or tired or weak but always, always underneath it is, "I don't deserve this."

Or, to be more precise: Dean doesn't deserve this. Dean could have a life.

He never says this. The one time Sam got drunk—really drunk, black-out drunk, couldn't lift his head drunk—he told Dean so. To leave, to just get out, why would you even stay?

He'd never seen Dean so mad.

"If that's what you fucking think," Dean started, but his jaw locked up and he looked away. Later, as Dean held Sam's hair back, he just said, "You're my brother."

But that never sounded like "I want to be here" to Sam. That always sounded like, "I wish I could leave; I wish you didn't need me; I wish I were somebody else."

Years pass, and neither says what they need to. Dean never says, "I love you, no one makes me laugh like you do, no one makes me feel at home like you do." Sam never says, "I love you, I'm so worried that I'm holding you back, I'm so glad you're here with me."

Sam gets worse. Loses weight, loses consciousness, too nauseous to eat, too weak to fight. Dean gets better—he can have whole conversations based on Sam's flickering eyelids, his whimpers of pain.

At the hospital, Dean understands every word, and his hours of research lead to raised eyebrows and small breakthroughs. Sam gains the weight back, one pound at a time. Sam can think sometimes for days—sometimes weeks. On the day that Sam asks for a cheeseburger, Dean pulls over and cries. "Yeah," he says, wiping his eyes. "Anything you want."

He can only get through half of it and a quarter of the fries before his stomach starts to protest, but Dean looks like Sam's just climbed Mount Everest. Dean tips the waitress $20 and smiles all the way home.

A week before christmas, they're in Idaho and the snow is two feet thick in places. Dean's job site is closed for a few days, but a few stores still have their lights on. So when one of Sam's prescriptions runs out, Dean says it'll be okay and is out the door before Sam can tell him to wait. Dean comes back two hours later and Sam just knows: "Was she pretty?"

Dean's eyes widen and he shoves the paper bag at Sam. "Shut up."

But Sam is smiling, and Dean is blushing, and it seems good.

The job takes a while, but Sam doesn't mind. Every time Dean visits the pharmacy—"forgot the gauze," "I don't like this knock-off aloe vera crap"—Sam has to smile. It's been too long since Dean did anything, took anything, for himself. It's spring by the time the site's been built, and the next job is states away. After months of seeing his brother happy, Sam won't budge. "I like it here," he says. "And so do you."

Dean gets up and walks away, something electric under his skin.

When Dean gets to the window, he looks out. The view's not impressive (a parking lot can only be so compelling), so Sam just waits. "Sam," Dean says, then stops. Clears his throat. "So, uh, I might like dudes sometimes."

Sam blinks. "And?"

Dean turns back. "What do you mean, 'and?' That's my soul right there, you asshole."

Sam laughs at Dean's rude gesture.

"Do you really not care?" Dean says, voice soft, body still.

Sam shakes his head. "I need to meet him, though. For important brother tests."

And whatever this is in Dean, it's passed. He relaxes. "Yeah," he says, almost smiling.

Like maybe there's a future after all.


End file.
